


Charnel House

by renwhit



Series: Road to Damascus [11]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Unreality, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, End!Tim, Fluff, For a bit at the beginning anyway, Ghost!Tim, Multi, Non-Canonical Character Undeath, Post-MAG160, RtD-Typical Abstract Bullshit, not season 5 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renwhit/pseuds/renwhit
Summary: Basira paused in the middle of some thousandth email she was replying to. “Do you think you could tell where Magnus is now?”Chin in hand, Tim took a moment to think. “I might be able to, but I wasn’t really around him enough after all this happened to get a proper lock on what he feels like. Even then, it depends on how far he is — the only ones I can hold onto across long distances are Jon, Martin and you.”Or, in which when becomes soon becomes now, and the End is here.
Relationships: Background Tim Stoker & Danny Stoker, Basira Hussain & Tim Stoker, Georgie Barker & Tim Stoker, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker, implied Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Series: Road to Damascus [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594225
Comments: 145
Kudos: 476
Collections: GerryTitan verse





	Charnel House

**Author's Note:**

> we made it, gang. holy shit. here we go. 
> 
> first, some art!!  
> [some beautiful sasha art from mae!](https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/post/613869593426067456/vastdweller-the-woman-who-stole-my-heart-333)  
> [a rendition of jon's sticker-covered cane!](https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/post/613870053067210752/marquis-de-all-the-knives-have-been-slowly)
> 
> suggested listening: raise the dead - rachel rabin  
> since it's no longer chock full of spoilers, [here's the whole RtD playlist on spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6AdmBXd75T1yXYcbsmsuyb?si=Syzqk9oVTdO-HiLk-oiMBg) and [right here on youtube!](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtbsflE5_344IvkV5aQ9QmtFXD-ShebnV)
> 
> finally, send all the love in the world to ron [@gerrydelano](https://gerrydelano.tumblr.com/) for his incredible help making this series what it's become. we wouldn't be here without him <3
> 
> buckle in, everyone. the road's not over yet.

Getting to Scotland was, by all rights, an absolute pain. 

Tim had expected as much. He had no flat and nothing to pack, but the other two certainly did. Being in each of theirs was difficult — their own exciting, unique flavor of difficult, of course.

Martin’s was sparse. If someone told Tim it was merely a showroom for those looking to move into the building, he would have believed that with no trouble. There were no personal photos, and the cupboards were, for the most part, empty. Enough dishware for one. A thin closet and small dresser. Nothing felt cramped, but it was too small for anything but a single person. Even the bed, despite being a double, was just narrow enough to make sharing uncomfortable. 

Finding out the building was owned by the Lukas family failed to surprise Tim and plenty pissed him off. He spared a moment to be a little bitter that Jon went and exploded Peter’s brain or whatever the hell he did, if only because Tim never got the chance to properly chew him out. Ultimately, packing up Martin’s things and moving him out was far, far more satisfying than any words Tim might’ve said to Peter, so he would take things as they were. 

Jon’s flat was built around telltale absence as well, but rather than the lack of a place for anyone else, it was a place in the shape of a person who would almost certainly never return. 

If she did, that was its own problem. 

Dishes sat half-finished, shoes piled by the door, blankets and pillows lay strewn across their respective beds. Things ignored, if Tim knew Jon and Daisy, to make room for the fact that having this place made those little annoyances more than worth it. 

When Jon went into Daisy’s room to find the cardigan she’d borrowed, he spent a long, long time staring at the single yellow sundress still hanging in her closet. 

Each flat came with its own grief, and not ones Tim tried to cover or dislodge. They had to process it. Processing it would be the only way they could move on without the feeling that they left something behind. He stayed quiet, helped them pack the things they wished to pack, and made sure they didn’t linger too long. They needed to process, yes. They also needed to not be found by the hunters, or the Hunt, or Elias— Jonah. Whatever. 

Tim didn’t have to work very hard to break the tension once they wrapped up. Forgetting to manifest enough that, when Martin pulled the car out of the spot by Jon’s old flat, he remained still sitting in thin-fucking-air as the car pulled away _through_ him, that did the trick with no trouble. 

Jon insisted he’d tried to get Martin’s attention immediately from his place in the back seat. Martin turned that around and said the only reason he’d noticed anything was that Jon had skipped laughter and gone straight to wheezing. 

Tim could only pray no passersby noticed, or else the Institute might get another statement about him. Rosie would never let him hear the end of it. 

Scotland itself was… fine, he supposed. Lot of fields. Lot of sheep. He’d been out of England some, sure, but he preferred going places to _do_ something. Rafting, hiking, kayaking, rock climbing, he wasn’t picky. _Something._

Martin looked like he could handle one of Tim’s more active trips — the guy was built dense, plenty big. He could probably carry his own pack and Tim right along with it. 

Hell of an image, there. Damn. How Martin didn’t realize how attractive he was, Tim had no idea. 

Jon? All matchsticks and spite. Tim would put money on him weighing the same amount as one of the packs Tim carried on an average trip. Even on a day his pain wasn’t so severe, he’d crumble.

So, sheep it was. 

Getting to the safehouse was no picnic, either. Martin and Jon spent an inordinate amount of time bickering over maps they each had on their phones — then, when service failed them, an ancient atlas. They spent enough time pulled over in some minuscule town that Tim was able to hang around for a bit, follow a pull, keep the person from dying (and try to find a way to turn down the subsequent pint he was offered with something besides, _I’m a whole ghost),_ and get back before their argument found its end. 

Still, this far away from cities meant the stars made for an incredible sight. It didn’t take much for him to convince them to shelve their stress-bickering and appreciate that once night hit. 

The number of constellations Jon knew was even more incredible. When Martin asked, Jon admitted it wasn’t anything to do with the Eye. He was interested in astronomy for a while when he was a teenager, and like anything he loved, he soaked up information about each piece like a sponge. 

When Jon began to describe legends from different cultures about what each little picture drawn through celestial bodies meant, Martin stopped looking at the sky at all, and just watched Jon spin words together in the cool night air.

Tim would have teased him about that, but the only reason he noticed was because he was doing the same. Predictable, the whole lot of them.

The safehouse was an old, cobweb-ridden thing that made Jon hesitate for a long moment. Only once Martin went in to check and declared it spider-free did Jon follow. 

Tim paused outside, and instead took a beat to extend his perception out and feel what he could in the area. Fairly quiet, nothing out of place. His two guidepoints bustled about in the safehouse, and he could feel the unshakable lighthouse shine of Basira all the way back at the Institute. He couldn’t pick out Melanie or Georgie from here, but knew if something was wrong Basira would let him know.

All safe. All okay.

Not all were accounted for, but that was a problem for later. Now was for unpacking, for settling, and for appreciating every small bit of true contact he was now able to have with Jon. 

Tim kept an eye out and, yes, there was that same look he used to give others after he died and before he met Georgie, the one that carried a sort of resigned envy for something lost forever. Martin didn’t wear the look well, but Tim supposed he probably hadn’t either. 

Being wrapped up in the Lonely didn’t give the same intangibility of the End, but if that look was anything to go by it must have felt just the same. 

Nothing else for it, then. When Martin pulled a half-finished knitting project from one box, Tim saw his chance — his chance being this large mass of orange yarn still draped over Martin’s hands. That, plus the long sleeves he wore? Perfect. 

“So, I know you’re busy unpacking and all,” Tim said as he vaulted the back of the couch and landed next to Martin without so much as a bounce. “But I think it’s actually movie time.” 

Without another word, he sprawled indelicately across Martin’s legs, hands pillowed behind his head on the arm of the couch. Manifesting his upper body to keep that same solid weight there came with little trouble. He might not feel _quite_ the same as another person to those not tied to the End, he might need something inorganic there to give him actual shape, but it was still _contact._

Martin blinked at him. “I— What?”

“Movie time. Did you bring _Lord of the Rings?”_

“Tim.” There was no shortage of affront to his voice. “Of course I brought _Lord of the Rings.”_

A creak came from the old wooden floor behind the couch as Jon came in from the bedroom. “What are— Oh. Should I, um… Are you two—”

Before Jon could continue to stumble over whatever no doubt embarrassing thing he planned to ask, Tim saved him. “Movie time, come on. No getting out of the marathon.”

After some direction from Martin about where the box set was — Tim refused to let him up, claiming he was far too comfortable as he was — they all settled in. Jon only needed a single nudge and pointed nod from Tim to come in close on Martin’s other side, and before long Martin looked truly, genuinely relaxed. 

An old favorite series and some deep pressure from the others didn’t solve any of Martin’s problems then and there, but by now they all knew that wasn’t the point. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Melanie King was, at that exact moment, the picture of misery.

Blankets piled around her, a trash bin overflowed with used tissues by where she sat curled on the couch, and a mug of strong-smelling mint tea never left her hands for long. Tim couldn’t even count the cough drop wrappers littered around. With the compression pads still affixed over her eyes firm as ever, she couldn’t look pathetically up as he and Georgie came in the room, but she seemed to be giving it her best shot anyway. 

“Tim’s here, sweets,” Georgie said.

Melanie waved in the vague direction of the door. “Hey, T—”

Before she could attempt to finish the greeting, coughs interrupted. The Admiral took that moment to spring from where it’d perched on the back of the couch and darted towards him. One leap and a catch from Tim later, and the Admiral took up post sprawled against his chest and nosing at his face, purring the whole while.

Past the faceful of affectionate cat Tim was busy fielding, he saw Melanie attempt to lever herself off the couch. 

“Woah, hey—” With a few short strides Georgie crossed over to her. “What d’you need? I’ll grab it.”

Melanie looked equal parts fond and mutinous. “I’m fine.”

“You look like death, hon.”

From where Tim leaned against the living room wall with arms still very full of Admiral, he called, “You _wish_ you looked like death.” Melanie flipped off the air three feet to his left. 

“I was just going to get another bottle of water,” she said as Georgie readjusted her blanket and started collecting the wrappers scattered about. 

Tim pushed off the wall. “I got it.” Who knew when Georgie would be free of the whole wrapper scavenger hunt?

The Admiral leapt away again as he leaned over to get a cold bottle from the fridge, and he tried to not miss the contact too much. He would be back. His visits with Georgie were never long these days, but being able to come at all was nice. Considering the shit that happened at the Institute, they’d all decided keeping in touch was safer than isolation, especially when that included visits from the guy who’d be most likely to catch it if something was wrong on a supernatural level. 

Well, the most likely without calling on the Eye and risking the attention of a certain voyeuristic waste of a suit. Second best.

Tim hummed under his breath as he went back into the living room. It’d taken a single visit for them to realize that his silent footsteps and Melanie’s blindness made for a bad combination, so he did what he could. It was this or snapping constantly. 

As Tim came to the back of the couch, Georgie glanced up, then took the bottle and shot him a quick, appreciative smile as she opened the lid with a crack. “Here, hon.” 

Melanie took a long, grateful sip. “How’s everyone else been?” 

“Boys’re all moved in,” he answered. “It’ll take some acclimating to and all, but we’re figuring it out.”

“Probably defeats the point of a safehouse if you tell us where it is, right?” Georgie didn’t look overly eager, already knowing the answer she would get.

“Bingo. If all hell breaks loose, Basira knows the address.” 

Melanie raised a hand. “Gotta know: how many beds?”

“One. I had to be the one to tell Martin that, no, he wasn’t going to sleep on the couch, he and Jon could share,” Tim answered with a smile at the memory. The other two had both blushed scarlet the whole time, and Jon looked about ready to strangle Tim. 

“Does that still work?” Georgie cocked her head. “Considering there’s… y’know, three of you.”

“I mean, I don’t sleep.”

“As if that’d stop you.”

Tim snorted at that. “Alright, well, there wouldn’t be room for us to all sleep, but there’s _definitely_ room for me to sprawl on top of Jon and be an absolute pain — Martin too, if he’s under a blanket — so that’s just fine with me.”

He had no watch and his judgement of time across short spans was laughable on the best of days, but if he was right, he needed to be on his way. Death hanging around was probably a bad omen, or something.

“Speaking of, they’ve been without me there to bother them too long. I should head out.”

“Give Jon an elbow for me,” Melanie called from the couch as Georgie stood to see Tim off. 

“Noted,” he replied. “Anything for Martin?”

“He gets a hug. I’m feeling nice.”

Georgie held open her arms, and Tim met her in his own long hug. As always, she gave him control over when to step away, but that no longer came with the caveat that it was the last he got. They had a system, now. His visits were brief — no telling what sort of attention him being there too long might bring — and always ended with that same long, warm embrace.

She didn’t apologize for asking him to leave the first time. He would never expect her to.

“Tell Basira we say hello!” Georgie said with a last smile when he pulled back. “And to let us know if she needs anything.” 

Tim couldn’t help laughing a little at that. “I’ll be sure to say so, but you know how she is. Gotta harass her directly.”

“That’s why I send it by Ghost Mail rather than texting.”

“Heavy is the burden of Basira-wrangling.” 

However hoarse and sick Melanie felt, it in no way impeded her shout of, “I’m telling her you said that!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim called back. “You can’t see it, but whatever’s the rudest gesture you can think of, that’s what I’m doing.”

The empty water bottle she sent sailing towards him would’ve hit square on had he not ducked out the door in the nick of time.

Head poked back through, he shouted, “Hey, bullseye! Keep on that aim, champ, you’ll be a marksman in no time.”

By the time her tissue box smacked into the door, he was already halfway down the hall, laughing the whole while. 

  
  


* * *

_"Wrangling?”_

“Hello to you, too." 

Despite her greeting, Basira looked like she was coming up for air when she saw him. Drowned in red tape, it seemed. Terrible way to go. 

It wasn’t her usual office considering the whole Institute was still a crime scene, empty room she’d claimed and all. She’d moved as much as she’d been allowed to her temporary residence — barely what she needed to ensure things held together by the smallest degree. If he thought the bags under her eyes were dark before, the ones she wore now must have been a purchase from the Ny-Ålesund gift shop. People’s Church trademark and everything. 

Basira’s flicker of relief vanished as she sent him a dry look. “Considering in the past you’ve used both dissociation-and-body-horror and puns instead of hellos, I think I can say whatever I want.”

Well. Couldn’t argue that one. 

Tim flipped the other chair near her desk around to straddle it with arms folded across the back. “How’s it been around here?”

Rather than speak, Basira buried her face in her hands and let out a long, loud groan.

“That good, huh?”

“They still want to level the building, it’s a nightmare.”

“Honestly?” Tim said. “Don’t think I’d be too heartbroken over that.”

Basira shook her head. “The first time Magnus said that killing him would kill all of us, he also said that destroying the Institute would do the same thing.”

“I already told you I’m pretty sure he was blowing that a little out of proportion.” Even as he disagreed, there was no argument in his tone.

“I know, but with the amount of staff still tied to the place I don’t want to risk it. You might’ve been able to circumvent whatever would happen if it came to killing _him,_ but we have no idea whether that’d work for this too. The building isn’t exactly alive.”

“Mm, true.” Still didn’t mean he wouldn’t love to burn the whole thing to the ground, but no. No, it was the resting place. Neither it nor the people tied to it were to be harmed. 

“Besides,” she continued. “We have no idea what might still be in there that could help us figure out what to do next.”

A fair point, considering how stuck in the short term they all were for now. They’d just have to hope that, wherever Elias was, he was doing the same. 

Unlikely, of course, but for the time being there was very little they could do about that. They could handle whatever came, and until then there was no point in twisting themselves into knots over what-ifs. 

Basira paused in the middle of some thousandth email she was replying to. “Do you think you could tell where Magnus is now?”

Chin in hand, Tim took a moment to think. “I might be able to, but I wasn’t really around him enough after all _this_ happened to get a proper lock on what he feels like. Even then, it depends on how far he is, too — the only ones I can hold onto across long distances are Jon, Martin and you.”

“Probably doesn’t help that he must know how to hide himself, at least a little.” Basira added as she took a moment to rub her eyes. Lord knew how long she’d been staring at that screen. 

“Right. Even if I could grab onto whatever signal he has, he might have a way to tell that I’ve found him, and read it as some kind of— I don’t know, a declaration of war or something.”

“Dramatic.” 

“You’ve met the man. I think the Eye is just the avatar for drama queens.”

Basira came close to an actual laugh at that. “Between him and Jon, you may be right.” A long moment of quiet. “Have you been able to track down anyone else?”

“No, but I’m going to look around some before heading back up north.”

Basira didn’t need to ask if Tim had found anything, well aware he would make sure she was the first to know. Tim didn’t need to mention making another attempt, as Basira knew his cyclical routine — Jon and Martin, Georgie’s apartment, her, the search, and back around again. 

Sometimes hearing things in words, even things already known, was nice. Grounding. 

Neither of them said Daisy’s name. Neither of them brought up the promise Basira had made her before she gave into the Hunt and saved all of their lives. Neither of them acknowledged that, if Tim found Daisy, he would keep Basira’s promise. 

Tim didn’t look for Daisy in the hope that he would find her magically freed once more from the Hunt’s relentless claws. He knew better than to bank on that. He only hoped he might find her before Basira was forced to keep that promise herself. 

He knew Basira would be able to do it, of course. If something needed to be done, she would do it. She would never break her word to Daisy. Not even for this. 

She would be able to, but Tim knew doing so would kill something in her. If he could prevent that, he would. However awful it would be to take care of it himself, that was nothing compared to how it’d hurt Basira. 

Some things were nice to hear in words. Other things were better left unspoken.

Basira took a long drink of coffee that Tim was certain was ice cold by now, the soft tap as she set it down again the only thing to break their silence. Her mug was a familiar one. Flower pattern. It was no more subtle than any other time she used it, but at this point Tim no longer needed unsubtle dishware to read Basira’s face as easily as she did books. 

Beyond anything, beyond sorrow and resolution and grief, she was _tired._ Bone deep. 

Might as well keep to routine, then. She looked like she needed the break — though, she always looked like she needed one. She always _did_ need one, not that she would admit as much. Problem X, Solution Y.

“You wanna read some before I go?”

Basira checked her watch. “We could probably get through a bit of the next chapter, but I need to head out in an hour or so.”

“Oh yeah?” Tim shifted his chair back around so he could sit back and prop his feet up on the bed — not like they had to worry about his shoes getting anything on the blankets. “Where’re you off to?”

“The noon service at Soho Islamic Center,” Basira answered as she went to her bedside table to grab their book. 

Tiim’s brows went up by a bit. “You’re practicing? Didn’t you go out for drinks with the others before all this went to hell?” She always wore the hijab, yes, but he’d assumed it was more of a cultural thing for her.

Settled in on the other side of the bed, Basira thumbed through the pages. “I wasn’t much before, but it’s nice to have some… consistency, I guess. Something routine.”

“And you make that work with all the…?” Tim trailed off with a vague gesture. He was pretty sure eldritch terror beings made no appearance in the Quran. 

She shrugged. “The way I see it, if Smirke can keep Christianity and Dekker can keep Judaism, I can keep Islam.”

“Hey, fair enough.” Smirke wasn’t a shining example for how to live one’s life, but from what Tim knew, Dekker seemed an alright sort. “We’re on Miracle Max, yeah?”

“Mm.” Basira scanned the page to reacclimate with the text. “Would you say you’re also mostly dead, slightly alive?”

“If it means I don’t have to eat whatever the hell it is he gives Westly, consider me all dead.”

With a roll of her eyes, she began, and together they let themselves think about something besides whatever horrors may come for them. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Ow!”

“That was from Melanie.”

“So Martin gets a hug and I get elbowed?”

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Give her a hug back from me, then. Jon?”

“Elbow her. Twice.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Martin sends his own hug, Jon sends two elbows.”

“Give Jon a—”

“Melanie, you and Jon are not having a g-ddamn wrestling match through me.”

“Be nice, sweets. Tim, how did you get to Scotland and back this fast?”

“Some kind of ghost bullshit, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“If you’ve got a better answer, Ms. Former Ghost Hunt UK, just shout.”

“Yeah, yeah. Piss off.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Still nothing?”

“Nothing. I was going to go a little further south this time before heading back up to Scotland. How’re things around here?”

“The Institute is still standing, still a crime scene. They’re interviewing some of the research staff now, since the admin interviews are over.”

“If I go there to—”

“No.” 

“C’mon, imagine how funny an interview from me would—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Ugh.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The woods were nothing more than woods. Not lovely. Not dark. Not deep. Just trees, bushes, and no Daisy. 

Someday, Tim was going to track down Robert Frost’s grave and throw some rocks at it. Complaining the whole while, no doubt. Loudly.

Still plenty of miles to go, but no one said Frost owned units of measurement, so. 

Though he couldn’t feel Daisy’s life force across great distances as he could the other three, he knew what she felt like. It wouldn’t be the same low embers that had grown so close to burning out over the last few months — she would be much closer to the wildfire, no will or woman at her side to keep it in check. 

There was no direction for it now. Nothing to fend off. No pack to guard, if she even recognized anything like a pack. 

Christ, what would she even _look_ like? Would she be one of those sharp-on-the-inside werewolf creatures? Would she look just the same, but hollowed of everything that had made her Daisy? Would she be nothing but a beast, mindless for all but the Hunt?

She was alive still, Tim knew that much. Whatever she was now, she was alive. 

Tim would take care of her, and Basira could continue to remember Daisy as who she truly was. 

The times he spent searching always felt like a mere moment before he left to return to his guidepoints, but he knew that if it felt so minuscule to him, then it was just short enough to keep the others from worrying. He could spend End knew how long wandering and waiting without care for the passage of days, but they all still lived by those days. Without some way to keep in touch, he had to as well. 

Nothing this time. He needed to be on his way, back to Jon and Martin. Things would be quiet there, he knew. Their lights shone even from here, one soft and the other brighter than ever. It was time for Tim to return home.

He knew he would, someday, find Daisy. Inevitability and all. He could only hope he did before her hunters’ instincts brought too many casualties.

Speaking of casualties — a pull. Far from the first time his routine was interrupted by one. He spared only a brief moment for irritation before turning to follow.

Before he reached then, another pull. Odd. He never felt more than one at a time unless it was the same event, but this tugged in the opposite direction.

Fine. Fine, he’d go to the first, then follow the second.

And a third came. A fourth. Whens built and everywhen became all became _now._

The air cracked through with timesick strands as every single _soon_ lost its meaning. The bright, bright guidepoint light so far away grew until it blinded and tore. 

The End was here. The End was here and all was End and everything Ended. 

Wounds shot through its Witness as it staggered where it stood. All the whens it could not watch, all at once. How could it Witness this many nows, all together, all in a suffocation that the Buried could never hope to match?

The Buried _did_ match. The Buried matched the asphyxiating bruised colors that marched up the Witness’s throat and around crushsplintered limbs because as all Ends came, each of its fellows brought their own form. 

Hunt-teeth ripped through it with visceral agony that sang the song of Flesh. Earth tore away under its feet to welcome all those fallen into Vast embraces of Spiralling wronglimb breaks. Where did the white-hot agonizing Slaughter of kniferipped skin become the blackburn Desolation of nerves and being and self? It knew the corkscrew burrow pain of Corruption but not like this, not like this. 

It could not Witness everywhen that became everything that was now. It could not. It saw them anyway in a strangling hold of wrongright. 

When did the terrifying weight of knowledge become the cold certainty of mortality? When did the everpresent Eye become the inevitable End? 

Being Witnessed. 

Everything was here and was Ended and all was lost. 

Beyond the all and the everything it could feel the Stranger it hated most. What could stop it from finding each liaison of Those It Did Not Know and making all those whens into nows? Everywhen was now, and never, and always. 

Was it walking? Could it walk? Nothing it saw was to be trusted, not with Twisting Deceit and the Masked making playthings of reality. Eye-touched or not, the Witness kept no clearsighted Knowledge, not when its business was that of the Unshaken, the End of All, Terminus, black-blood veins puppeting it as well as any silverstrung Mother’s marionette. 

Time had no meaning. Nothing did.

Some stubborn, pointless, rightwrong part of the Witness protested. Said the wrongright feeling of all these nows was not to be trusted either, that its name was— it was— 

It was no more than what it was.

It remembered a headstone. Two, side-by-side. They were important, said the ever-shrinking point of _before_ in its throat. 

Important only in that they had escaped this. Their whens were _before,_ before all time became one and the same, and the Witness could only envy them. 

Pain became all became none. If it overwhelmed and turned to _all,_ could it truly exist? How, when there was nothing but itself? 

The Witness walked veinwebbed paths that traced along its being. 

It was afraid. It was so, so afraid.

If fear became all became none, if it overwhelmed, that didn’t matter. Its role was to collect the pain and the fear of soon into when into now. 

It walked. It Witnessed. It stopped no deaths, not when death was the only way terrorsoaked souls could escape this hell. Death was a mercy. 

Those of I Do Not Know You crossed its path, and did not live long enough to taste regret. 

Above, above them all, the Eye. Always. Now and forever and ceaseless.

Not ceaseless, no. All things met their End. Everything, everyone, everywhen. 

The Witness walked, choking on gravesoil and black, black hatred, and could only plead that _soon_ may again one day hold enough meaning to bring the End of all. 

Through fallible, false sight, past endless ending pain and fear, three lights hungs still. Were the Witness able to feel anything like comfort, their continued presence might hold it. 

They shone on. Maybe they should go out if it meant they were free of this everywhen nightmare, but shone they did. 

They would go out. Somewhen. Now, soon, somewhen, in some unit of time from back when time was real. Until that pivot into Darkness, the Witness allowed itself to watch them shine. 

It walked. It Witnessed. It hurt. Time meant nothing, but even still it grew long enough that the Witness could no longer remember if there was anything outside this, now, here. Did any befores exist? Could they? 

No. No, there was only now and End. 

The guidepoints moved and shifted in painhazed every color. 

Other lives scattered about. Those that came near the Witness did not leave again. This reality was hell, was all, but the End was dark and quiet and nothing, nothing, nothing. Among all the everything fearpain, it was the only solace the Witness could offer. The End it gave was more painless than anything dealt by any other creature of the powers that walked whatever land remained. 

The Witness knew the pain of each and every End that befell those who brandished their lives as if it might save them. Skin bloodslick, cracked with branding scorchmarks, chased and hunted until their weak bodies could only collapse into the graveworms that waited for them. 

It could not save them. It could not save anyone. It could only give what it was: immediate; a single sharpshock of Ending. Its presence or that of those like it was the only way they would ever, ever find release.

Guidepoints grew closer. Still bright, still shining. The Witness hoped they would go out before they reached it — it did not want to bring itself near them, not when it was no longer sure if those that drew close to it and fell to their End did so out of any choice of its own. 

It was not the only being who could offer the closest thing to freedom that remained in this nightmare. Another would hold their Ends. The Witness had not earned anything so close to mercy as that, but it prayed all the same.

Roads paved themselves in blackened bones and led nowhere. When clouds broke with stormweight, they rained insects or acid or hot, thick blood. The bodies that still carried life did so with loose, empty limbs; with cracked burnflesh; with lungs choked by terror and fog. 

Worse than the choral screams of those living was the laugher. It sang out in the same splintered melody, and carried just as much fear. More.

They drew in, the three lights, like they were following it. Searching it out. Why did they chase their own End? 

Maybe they sought escape. It wouldn’t blame them. That was all it had to offer those who came near. 

Though it moved away from them in some feeble effort to keep them lit, it knew inevitability as its own name. None carried the adrenaline tang of Hunters, but they followed with the same relentless pursuit. 

And so, resigned, it waited. It waited, and watched, and did not, could not Witness. Not here. Not them. Not in whatever mockery of now still remained. 

When the three who had followed it for— for an amount of time that escaped measure saw it there, waiting across a clearing in what may have once been a city block, they paused. 

Good. Distance was still real, for the most part, and holding onto the real that remained must be important. Easier when two of the three Saw clearly. Distance was mostly real, and might keep them mostly safe. 

For a long, long moment, no one spoke. The two not blindfolded visibly lingered on the blood down its side (Mariah Larson, 30. Corruption.) Though the third’s eyes were covered, it was certain he too knew the crawlingrot that bored into its nonexistent flesh. 

The Witness was what it was, and it was what it carried. If these three followed it, they should have expected as much.

The largest of the three looked to the blindfolded one. “Does— do you think he recognizes us?”

There was a pause before the middle one replied. “When I met it— _him_ like this before, it—”

“I know who you are.” 

Its voice carried without trouble through the clearing, and both men visibly startled; it could hear their pounding hearts from where it stood. The woman’s dark eyes stayed trained on it. It looked to her first. 

Wolfwatcher. Hawksight. Vigilance. “The Detective.”

Next, the man who spoke first. Any fear was gone from his frame, and he stood firm despite the fog in his breath and silverstring around his fingers.

Mistwoven. Silvertongue. Brumethread. “The Hidden One.”

Finally, the middle. His eyes were covered, but the Witness could feel him watching all the same. Piecing apart. 

Everseen. Shamecrowned. Discerned. “The Archivist.” 

The woman wasted no false seconds on deliberating before her reply. “And do you know where we are?” 

“Where is anywhere?” Distance still meant something, yes, but not because location carried any truth. 

She took a step forward, and it mirrored her in reverse. 

_“Don’t.”_

Though she didn’t take another, she also didn’t move away. It would have to do. 

With static more than speech, the Archivist asked, “Why?”

Rightwrong obstinance begged for some sharp edge in its words, some heat against the compulsion, but it knew there was no point. “If you get too close, I’ll kill you.”

“Do you want to?”

If it were able to, it might have laughed. When was the last time its wants meant anything? “Does that matter?”

“It does.” From the other man, silverspun and earnest. The Witness did not reply. 

The woman took another step, and this time it only watched. No backing away. If she wished to die, fine. Even if some part of it shrank away from the thought, there was no point in avoiding the inevitable. She and both others would someday die. If they wished to do so now, that meant nothing. Now meant nothing. 

“Basira,” the Archivist murmured, voice chained with caution, but she paid him no mind. 

Screamsmoke and ringing laughter carried through metallic wind. The Witness could hear rubble and boneshards crunch under the woman’s boots as she took step after stupid, suicidal step. The whole time, she kept her same steady eye contact. She always did. It wasn’t sure what _always_ meant, not here, not thiswhen, but whatever _always_ existed, it carried her steadiness.

It spoke again, more whisper than word. Confession. “I don’t want to kill you.” 

“Then don’t.” No hesitation. It was as simple as cause and effect. 

Behind her, it could feel the others approach, and part of it was desperate to flee. To leave them before it ended them where they stood, and left it without even the false, hollow comfort of their distant stars.

Stars. Stars, yes, like constellations. Those… those mattered. When?

Rightwrong fear and desperate shaken _need_ kept it where it stood. Everything in it felt so, so hollow. 

No, hollow was wrong. Hollow meant it had once been filled, and there was nothing. Nothing. Nothing could fill the End, not when there was nothing there to be filled. The Witness was no more than what it was, and what it was was the End. 

It was so tired.

Another spinecrunch step. The fabric covering the woman’s hair was yellow. Where had it seen that yellow before?

“You’ve followed. You’ve Seen. The Archivist could tell you how many people died getting near me before you started to follow.” The number pulsed in place of a heart and tangled in the en masse death that turned everything in it frozen and splintered. So many. So, so many dead, and nowhere near enough. Not for the End. Not enough. Never enough. These three would join the countless bodies, and once again the Witness would be alone until it all Ended. “Do you want to die?”

“No.” Again, the word fell dense in hazy air. 

“Then why are you here?” It had no right to whys, not when _when_ was all it could ever be, but it asked anyway. Insatiable, just as its patron. 

Step after fatal step. “Because I’m not losing you, too.”

Losing it? How could she ever lose something as eternal as death? What was left in it to lose? 

It had nothing to say to that, not when the words made no sense. Part of it wondered if she was nothing more than another one of the Masked with how little what she said matched its reality, but no. No, it knew the blood of Those It Did Not Know, and she carried nothing but hawksight wolfwatching Eyes.

“I—” Its own words dragged themselves free from its throat like razorwire. “I’m sorry.”

Behind her, the other two followed. Three people, three relentless lights, looking for someone they would never, ever find. 

“Everything’s gone wrong, but…” Silvertongue, Mistwoven, he spoke. “But we’re going to figure it out, alright? You included.” 

It couldn’t afford naiveté, but still it hoped they did. It really, really hoped so. 

“Tim.” The Archivist, now. The clarity that before made each letter buzz with static had fled, leaving nothing but human fear. “You promised, remember?”

The name hit like a stone, but it only took a moment for the old falsehoods of time to fall into place and bring distinction with them. Tim may have promised something, somewhen. The Witness did not, and so it said nothing.

The woman, now with a strange fire to her, forged even closer. “Because— Dammit, Tim, I lost my partner already.” Her voice went slicksharp. “I lost my partner, I am _not_ losing my person.”

Her person. Steady words, solid presence. What could it possibly offer her now?

“Then you’re too late.”

“Shut the hell up.” Whipcracked speech cut into the air. “I know who you are, Tim, and I know you’re still _you._ If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have given a damn if you killed us. You’re _you,_ and you’re my person. I’m not finishing that book without you, and if I never find out if Inigo kills _the g-ddamn Six-Fingered Man_ I’m never going to forgive you.”

Something cracked inside it. Something deep between its ribs and along its spine, something long-dead and so, so tired.

Slowly, slowly, its neck bent until its forehead rested on her shoulder. She— Basira, _Basira_ let out a long, shaking breath, and remained just as she was. Steady. There. Not, never alone. 

A hand hesitated in its periphery, then came to rest on its shoulder. Warm. Present. Jon. 

Another reach. It expected nothing, but after a beat it felt weight against the back of its head, brushing against its hair. When it lifted its head, the third person— _Martin_ gave it a small smile and lifted his hand once more to show the old glasses-cleaning cloth he held in order to make contact. 

Jon was, to the Witness’s lack of surprise, the first to speak. “This— this is all my fault, I’m—”

“Don’t.” It knew little of how things turned this wrong, but it knew that this was no fault of Jon’s. With acidburn conviction, it locked eyes with him. “If I keep my promise, you do the same. You don’t give up on them.” 

Jon made no acknowledgment of its use of _them_ rather than _us,_ and it wondered if he called himself Archivist in his own head as much as it called itself Witness. 

The Institute monsters, the both of them. Together, at least, with Martin and Basria at their sides. Somewhen they might find Georgie and Melanie. The Witness doubted they would be any safer with this group, not when it knew very well that their plan, whatever it came to be, meant finding the one truly to blame for this all. There was a long-avoided _when_ to be turned into the most painful _now_ the Witness could muster. 

Nowhen was safe, and once the Witness felt like it could walk without allowing a pull to drag it along, they moved on. The three guidepoints called it Tim, and it let them. If a name rather than title brought them a scrap of comfort in this ruined world, it was glad to give them that.

Whether or not it was still Tim Stoker, one thing hadn’t changed:

It told Elias it would see him in hell, and it kept its promises.

**Author's Note:**

> and.... we made it. the End. here we are. what the fuck.
> 
> i seriously can't express how unique an experience this is for me, and i have so much love in my heart for everyone who's followed from day 1, who picked it up in the middle, or who've hopped in on the end. i love you all!!!
> 
> this isn't the end (haha) of my works -- be sure to check out [come what may](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818277), a "danny lives" au series that grows into a significant canon divergence. still want more? check out [@titanfalling](https://docs.google.com/document/d/14KlgPfOb16ocGj8k0QrElw6UY0SqoNeH2yTj_zQ31bA/edit?usp=sharing>this%20directory</a>%20of%20my%20and%20ron%20@gerrydelano's%20tma%20works,%20including%20connections%20between%20our%20stories%20and%20other%20lil%20bits%20of%20trivia%20in%20our%20shared%20universe!%0A%0Aand%20as%20always,%20catch%20me%20at%20<a%20href=). feel free to eviscerate me in my inbox!


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